Leaves Before the Storm

by Angela Arney

  She joined Silas Moon, who had constructed a sturdy pen and was now setting up a bowling alley on the flattest part of the lawn. ‘For the pig,’ he said, nodding his head towards the pen.

  ‘But I thought we couldn’t do it because of the regulations,’ Megan began, ‘and Albert Noakes …’

  Silas laughed. ‘’Tis a pity old Albert has gone down with a bit of stomach trouble and a terrible headache today.’

  ‘Oh.’ Megan was suspicious. There was something too smug about Silas’s voice.

  Silas laughed again. ‘We all had a drink at the East End Arms last night, everyone buying Albert drinks on account of him being made fête supervisor. A drop of the cider might have been a bit off.’ He raised his bushy eyebrows expressively. ‘I’m thinking he won’t be straying far from the privy today. So we can have bowling for the pig like always. It’s one of Wally Pragnell’s, a piglet, the runt of the litter, but with a bit of care it’ll fatten up nicely for Christmas.’

  An over-excited Rosie joined Megan, with Dottie in faithful attendance. She was already in her maypole dress of white with red and blue ribbons sewn on it by Lavinia. Megan had noticed that Lavinia was completely besotted with Rosie; helping her with her homework, attending to her every need, and informing Megan that the little girl had a very good brain and would go far if given the chance.

  Rosie and Dottie danced around the men erecting the maypole under George’s instructions until they were banished before the pole should fall on them and flatten them both.

  Megan took them and let them help sorting out the bottle stall. There was ginger beer, lots of home-made cordial and, what the girls liked most, tiny bottles of perfume. Little blue bottles of Evening in Paris, and a whole box of green dimpled bottles of Devon Violets, plus one or two tiny bottles of pure perfume left over from before the war. The bottle stall kept them quiet for the rest of the morning.

  When everything was ready the Folly House party had a picnic lunch on the lawn before the official opening. Gerald and Violet came and Gerald manoeuvred himself so that he ended up sitting by Megan. ‘Heard from Henry yet?’ he asked casually.

  Megan pretended not to hear and waved at Arthur, who was sitting on the other side of the family circle. ‘Come and keep me company,’ she called.

  ‘A crippled brother is not the answer. You need other company.’ Gerald’s voice was low, and he touched her bare arm with his hand. Megan flinched away. ‘Henry wants an heir for Folly House, and here’s a man right here who could give you one.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ whispered Megan.

  ‘I’d be only too willing.’ Gerald laughed and caught her hand in his.

  ‘Go away. I’m married to Henry.’ Megan turned and looked into his dark eyes. He was smiling but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. Megan shivered and snatched her hand away.

  ‘That’s not what you said the last time, my mistress of Folly.’ He stood up as Arthur wheeled himself over, and said, ‘Park yourself there, old chap. I’ll go and join my wife.’

  From the relative safety of sitting beside Arthur, Megan watched him talking with Violet. Gerald held a dangerous fascination for her, and she knew she must be careful. She kept silent, only nodding at Arthur’s query asking if she was all right.

  Later Lavinia made a short opening speech, and Marcus gave a prayer for the success of the fête, for the success of England in the war, and for the safe return of all the sons of East End as well as everyone else in the world who was caught up in the conflict.

  Then the fête started in earnest as the stalls were open for business. At half past three East End Primary School gave a display of maypole dancing. Miss Cousins, the head teacher, had wanted to exclude Rosie because of her clubfoot and limp, but Megan had insisted she should be included. Now as she watched how hard Rosie tried, and how well she kept up with everyone else, she was proud of her.

  ‘You know, Rosie is one of the prettiest girls there,’ remarked Lavinia to Megan. ‘You’d hardly know she’s got a clubfoot. When she dances she doesn’t limp at all.’

  Megan smiled and felt relaxed. Their plan for the fête to make everyone forget the war for a few hours was working. She and Lavinia retired to two seats near the East End brass band, which started playing a medley of patriotic tunes when the dancing finished. They were applauded enthusiastically, no one minding the occasional squeak from the saxophonist; elderly Mr Miller was playing the instrument in place of his son who was away at war, and obviously needed a little more practice.

  Dottie brought them both a cup of tea and some home-made seedy cake, and Rosie joined them still in her maypole dress. ‘Can we have a go on the bottle stall now?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got two sixpences saved, that’s two goes at getting a bottle, and Dottie’s got sixpence as well.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Megan.

  The band struck up the tune: There’ll always be an England.

  To Megan’s surprise Lavinia suddenly looked tearful. ‘There will, you know,’ she said softly. ‘There will always be an England, no matter what happens. And Henry will come back. I’m sure of it.’

  Megan leaned forward and took Lavinia’s hand in hers. Something she’d never done before. Never dared to, but Lavinia had never sounded old and vulnerable before. ‘I know he will,’ she said. ‘All will be well.’

  She was rewarded by a radiant smile from Lavinia and as if on cue the band started playing The White Cliffs of Dover.

  They were interrupted by a whoop of joy from Rosie who practically threw herself at Megan, brandishing a small green bottle decorated with a purple ribbon. ‘Look what I’ve got. I’ve got a bottle of Devon Violets and Dottie has got Evening in Paris.’

  Dottie waved her dark-blue bottle and proceeded to try and unscrew it.

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Megan. ‘What lucky girls you are.’

  ‘Yes, this has been a lucky day for all of us.’ Lavinia stood up. ‘Now we’ve finished our tea I think we should patronize all the stalls once more before the afternoon ends. And Dottie, you’d better give me that perfume before you spill all of it.’

  ‘Can I bowl for the pig?’ asked Rosie, as Dottie reluctantly handed her bottle over to Lavinia.

  ‘Why not?’ Megan stood and was about to move towards the pig pen when her father came rushing up, closely followed by Arthur propelling himself along in his wheelchair.

  ‘Megan.’ Her father was breathless. ‘Here’s a telegram for you.’ He thrust a small buff envelope towards Megan. It had the letters OHMS stamped across the top.

  Megan knew what it meant. They all did. Some of the people near by had seen the envelope, and they drew closer. They were quiet, all looking at Megan expectantly. She was aware of Gerald and Violet moving across to join their group, and it seemed to her that the sun had suddenly gone behind a dark cloud. She shivered, and her hand trembled as she took the envelope.

  ‘Shall I open it for you?’ her father asked.

  ‘No. I must do it.’ But her fingers were shaking so much she couldn’t peel open the envelope.

  Lavinia moved to her side. ‘We’ll open it together,’ she said quietly, taking the envelope from Megan’s nerveless fingers.

  The envelope opened, she passed the paper with its faint tickertape message across to Megan. ‘It says,’ said Megan, and then stopped. ‘It says,’ she began again, her voice wavering with the effort of keeping it under control. ‘Captain Henry Lockwood of the Royal Army Medical Corps is missing presumed killed in action.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Christmas 1940

  When a bomb dropped on the village of East End no one was surprised. In fact it was a surprise that it hadn’t happened earlier as they were not far from Southampton which had been bombed almost daily. The rumbling German Heinkels came from occupied France, bombed Southampton, and then swung round over the New Forest on their way back to their German bases.

  Megan didn’t have much time to worry about bombs. Life was one incessant rush; there were things to be done o
n the farm, in the house, and on top of everything else Christmas was coming. Henry was still missing presumed killed; sometimes Megan had difficulty in visualizing him, it was as if he had never been. There was no time to mourn or even think of it, as since Tilly’s departure she’d taken on her share of the housework; there was only so much Bertha and Dottie could do. She reflected wryly back to the days at the vicarage when she’d thought she was hard done by with only one maid/cook for the whole house. Now, she had to work on the land as well. Her hands, once soft and manicured, were now calloused and red, roughened from her manual work. Rosie, who was her shadow when she wasn’t at school, tried her best to help, and Megan couldn’t imagine life without her, neither could she imagine life without the two land girls. They were now valued members of the team, even Silas Moon approved of them.

  Molly Fox was tall, slender and blonde, with a penchant for smoking cigarettes in a long cigarette holder, and Pat Humby, plain, dumpy, with a jolly disposition had the strength of two men. They slotted into life on the farm and the village as if they had always been there, and Molly Fox was in demand for the darts team at the East End Arms on account of her unerring aim.

  In the middle of December there was a sudden cold snap on the day they’d been due to harvest the carrots from the lower field at East End, and transfer them to the clamp so that they’d last the rest of the winter.

  Megan went with the two girls to the field. Molly kicked at a furrow with a booted foot. ‘Like cast iron,’ she announced. ‘Maybe we’d better pick the sprouts instead of doing the carrots.

  Pat dug her spade into the hard earth and managed to shift some. ‘Look, it’s softer underneath. Maybe we can do it. What do you think Megan?’

  Megan thought. ‘The sprouts will keep,’ she said slowly. ‘Silas says sprouts taste better when they’ve had a few frosts, and if we have more cold nights this earth really will be like iron, then we’ll never get at the carrots.’

  ‘OK, so we’ll go to it,’ answered Pat and willingly began to dig.

  Molly slid her cigarette packet back into her jodhpurs and picked up her spade as well. ‘OK, but you’ll owe us a round at the East End Arms this evening.’

  ‘Done,’ replied Megan with a grin. ‘Now I’ve got to get back to some office work.’

  Back in the office she started on the monthly accounts for November, cursing the fact that she was so far behind. Normally she managed to keep everything up to date and was not faced with the pile of post she had in front of her. She shuffled through the brown envelopes – all Ministry Forms, thought Megan irritably, as she dropped half a dozen. An official form for everything under the sun, she thought. As she stacked the pile she came across a blue envelope addressed to her, Mrs Henry Lockwood, in unfamiliar handwriting.

  Inside was a brief note.

  Dear Mrs Lockwood,

  I am writing on behalf of Squadron Leader Adam Myers who is enquiring the whereabouts of his friend, Captain Henry Lockwood. He is unable to write himself at the moment as he has been injured and is in hospital, but he asked me to send this letter to you. Perhaps you can let him know the current address of your husband so that he can correspond with him.

  Yours in grateful anticipation

  Maureen O’Malley (Nurse)

  The address was a hospital in Surrey. Megan put the letter aside. She hadn’t given Adam a thought for a long time, but suddenly all the old uncertainties came back and with it the unreasonable jealousy. Then common sense prevailed. She’d reply later when she had more time. Adam couldn’t influence Henry now. No one could.

  Later that night she was awoken by Bertha hammering on her door.

  ‘The siren is going. Shall I take Rosie to the shelter?’

  ‘Yes,’ shouted Megan, and threw on an old sweater and jodhpurs before grabbing some warm clothes and a blanket for Rosie and making for the Anderson shelter in the garden.

  Then the all-clear siren started; the warning had obviously been a mistake. As the long, drawn-out howl of the all-clear speared the cold night air Megan began helping a very sleepy Rosie back up the steps from the shelter. They were in the garden when a tremendous explosion shook the ground, the house and everything around. With a frightened cry, Rosie clung unto Megan as the sky was lit by a brilliant orange flash coming from the direction of the village.

  ‘A bomb has landed in East End,’ shouted Bertha, stating the obvious.

  Megan didn’t reply. East End was such a small place; she prayed that the bomb had landed harmlessly in a nearby field.

  George clambered out of the shelter behind Bertha. He had on his tin hat, which shone eerily in the increasingly intense orange glow. ‘I’m going there now,’ he shouted, scrambling across the garden in the direction of the shed. ‘See what I can do.’ He dragged his bicycle out and pedalled away.

  ‘I ought to go,’ said Megan. ‘They must need some help. By the look of it the bomb must have been an incendiary.’

  ‘You are not going anywhere,’ Lavinia appeared out of the darkness of the garden in her dressing-gown and grabbed hold of Megan determinedly. ‘Your place is here with us. We need you here.’

  ‘Quite right.’ Bertha came across with a frightened Dottie close behind her. ‘Let’s go into the house now and I’ll make a cup of tea.’ She looked up at the sky from where came the faint throbbing sound of an engine. ‘That bomb must have come from a stray plane left behind.’ She shook her fist at the darkness of the night sky. ‘How dare you bomb us,’ she shouted.

  Despite everything Megan and Lavinia looked at each other and smiled. ‘Bertha would take on the Luftwaffe single-handed if she could,’ said Lavinia.

  The sound of the plane’s engines faded into the distance, leaving the night silent save for the roaring sound from the fire blazing in East End.

  Bertha set about making tea for the crowd in the kitchen. Rosie cuddled up to Lavinia, and Dottie cuddled up to Rosie. Megan laid out the cups and saucers, but was worrying about the fire in the village.

  ‘Not those,’ said Bertha, when she saw the plain white cups and saucers on the table. ‘Get out the bone-china ones.’

  ‘For goodness sake, Bertha,’ said Megan. ‘This is an emergency; we certainly don’t need to bother with best china tonight.’ She paused a moment, then said, ‘think about all those families, the ones who have been bombed tonight. They will have no china at all.’ Putting down the last cup on the table she made up her mind. ‘I have to go. I can’t stay here drinking tea.’

  The words were hardly out of her mouth when the kitchen door to the yard burst open, and an excited Albert Noakes, supporting a very blackened and dishevelled Marcus, staggered in.

  ‘The vicarage took a direct hit,’ announced Albert dramatically.

  ‘Arthur, where’s Arthur?’ Megan rushed towards them, hearing her own voice high with fear.

  Her father collapsed on to a chair. ‘He’s safe. He’s playing the piano over at Buriton village hall tonight,’ he muttered, then slid unconscious to the floor.

  On her knees beside him Megan grabbed Lavinia’s smelling salts from her hand, and, with Bertha splashing cold water on his face as well as the smelling salts beneath his nose, Marcus began to cough and splutter and recover consciousness. ‘We must call Dr Crozier,’ said Megan.

  But Marcus refused. ‘I’m just a bit battered and shocked.’

  ‘He must stay here,’ Lavinia said firmly. ‘He can sleep in one of the front bedrooms.’

  ‘Not like that he can’t,’ said Bertha. ‘He looks like a chimney sweep. He’ll spoil a set of good linen. I’d never get the soot stains out.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter about the linen,’ said Lavinia in exasperation.

  Bertha didn’t argue but her mouth set in a straight determined line and both Lavinia and Megan knew there’d be no budging her.

  So Marcus was taken up into one of the bathrooms, where Albert Noakes helped him remove his blackened, torn clothes, and ran a bath.

  ‘You can borrow one of Mr Hen
ry’s dressing-gowns and a pair of his pyjamas,’ said Bertha.

  Neither Megan nor Lavinia argued. Bertha had temporarily assumed charge.

  Marcus didn’t argue either and with Albert’s assistance struggled into Henry’s pyjamas which were too small; and then, after drinking a cup of hot cocoa, he collapsed into bed and slept.

  ‘There’s not much left of the vicarage,’ Albert Noakes told Megan when he returned downstairs. ‘Two of the walls have been completely blown away; anyone can walk into the house. Mind you, the furniture and stuff that’s left will be safe. No one from the village will let any outsider loot the vicarage. But I’ll go over and keep a lookout just to make sure.

  ‘Will you stay there until Arthur comes back from the social, and then make sure someone brings him back here?’ Megan was torn between staying with her father and going to look for her brother.

  Albert put a hand on her arm and squeezed it. ‘’Course I will, my dear,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’ll make sure he gets here safely. You don’t need to worry about him. You just look after yourself.’

  Unexpected tears filled Megan’s eyes. ‘Thank you.’ She wasn’t sure whether the tears were for Arthur, her father or herself, or because Albert Noakes had suddenly shown that he had compassion and wasn’t always a bad-tempered old man.

  Arthur arrived at Folly House at gone midnight. Megan and Lavinia joined Bertha in the kitchen, which was warm from the stove, wrapped themselves in their dressing-gowns and drank watery cocoa. Bertha had given Marcus the last decent cup.

  Eventually, after many explanations, Arthur was safely tucked up in another spare bedroom and it was time for all of them to go to bed for the remainder of the night. Lavinia put up in the boxroom for the rest of the night; it was hardly worth going back to the Dower House, besides she was nervous. The boxroom was the one Adam had always slept in. It reminded Megan of the letter, but she didn’t mention it to Lavinia.

  ‘Well, one good thing has come from that stray bomb,’ remarked Lavinia as she and Megan mounted the stairs.